For decades, China’s rise as a maritime power has been measured not only in warships launched or ports financed under the Belt and Road Initiative, but also in the vast armada of fishing vessels that now traverse nearly every ocean on the planet. While Beijing has recently taken steps to curb overfishing in its own coastal waters, its distant-water fleet continues to expand its reach — often in ways that blur the line between commercial enterprise and geopolitical strategy.
At the heart of this story lies a paradox. China is increasingly concerned about biodiversity loss and marine sustainability within its domestic waters. Yet beyond its shores, the world’s largest fishing fleet has become a central instrument of statecraft, pressing territorial claims, advancing strategic objectives, and in the process, contributing to mounting ecological strain.
Traditionally, China’s fishing boom was underwritten by generous state subsidies. For years, the government provided cheap fuel, vessel construction grants, tax breaks, and other financial incentives designed to expand catch capacity. These measures enabled Chinese fleets to venture farther and stay at sea longer, even when profit margins were thin.
The result was an unprecedented surge in distant-water fishing. By the mid-2010s, China’s fleet dwarfed those of most other nations combined, operating across the Pacific, Indian, and Atlantic Oceans.
In the late 2010s, Beijing began acknowledging the environmental cost. Facing depleted fish stocks in the Bohai Gulf and East China Sea, authorities imposed seasonal moratoriums, tightened quotas, and modestly reduced some fuel subsidies. Official rhetoric shifted toward “ecological civilization,” a term embraced by Chinese President Xi Jinping as part of a broader environmental agenda.
These reforms have had measurable impact within China’s own exclusive economic zone. Some coastal fisheries have stabilized, and enforcement against illegal practices has improved. However, the pace and scope of subsidy reform remain limited, particularly when it comes to vessels operating in international waters.
Journalist Ian Urbina reported in 2020 that more than seafood is at stake in the size and ambition of China’s fishing fleet. Against the backdrop of Beijing’s larger geopolitical aspirations, commercial fishermen often serve as de facto paramilitary personnel. Their ostensibly civilian status provides plausible deniability while advancing state interests.
Nowhere is this dynamic more visible than in the South China Sea. China claims historical rights to nearly the entire sea, delineated by its controversial “nine-dash line.” Competing claims from Vietnam, the Philippines, Malaysia, Brunei, and Taiwan have turned the region into a flashpoint.
Fishing vessels frequently appear in disputed waters in large numbers, sometimes forming swarms around reefs and shoals. They are often accompanied — or shadowed at a distance — by ships from the China Coast Guard, which in recent years has been placed under the command of the People’s Armed Police, strengthening its quasi-military character.
Analysts describe this strategy as “gray zone” coercion — actions that fall below the threshold of open conflict but gradually shift facts on the ground, or rather, at sea.
“What China is doing is putting both hands behind its back and using its big belly to push you out, to dare you to hit first,” observed Huang Jing, former director of the Center on Asia and Globalization at the Lee Kuan Yew School of Public Policy.
In effect, fishing vessels become both economic actors and geopolitical placeholders.
Chinese incursions have been reported far beyond East Asia. In waters near North Korea, Indonesia’s Natuna Islands, Ecuador’s Galápagos Marine Reserve, and even off the Pacific coast of Latin America, local authorities have documented large flotillas of Chinese vessels harvesting squid and other species.
In some cases, confrontations have erupted. Indonesian patrol boats have detained Chinese trawlers accused of illegal fishing. South American nations have expressed alarm at the sheer scale of foreign fleets operating near sensitive ecosystems.
While not all Chinese vessels engage in illegal activity, the scale of operations raises concerns about sustainability. Global fish stocks are already under severe stress from climate change, pollution, and overexploitation. When the world’s largest fishing fleet operates at industrial scale, even marginal overcapacity can have significant ecological impact.
Environmental groups argue that fuel subsidies artificially lower operating costs, encouraging longer voyages and larger catches than would otherwise be economically viable. When fleets are sustained partly for strategic presence rather than pure market demand, the pressure on marine life intensifies.
Ironically, China’s domestic environmental policies have grown more sophisticated. The government has established marine protected areas, promoted aquaculture to relieve pressure on wild stocks, and invested in monitoring technologies.
China has also become a major player in global climate diplomacy and biodiversity negotiations. It hosted the COP15 summit on biological diversity and pledged support for international conservation goals.
Yet critics argue that these efforts sit uneasily alongside the continued projection of fishing power abroad. Subsidy reforms have been incremental, and enforcement standards vary widely once vessels operate thousands of miles from Chinese ports.
This duality reflects competing priorities within Beijing’s policy apparatus: ecological stewardship on one hand, and maritime strategy on the other.
The concept of a “maritime militia” is not officially acknowledged in the same way as regular armed forces, but analysts widely describe China’s fishing fleets as part of a broader system of layered maritime power. Civilian fishermen can be mobilized to support coast guard or naval operations, providing reconnaissance, logistics, or simple numerical presence.
This approach complicates responses by rival claimants. Confronting what appears to be a civilian fleet risks diplomatic escalation. Ignoring it risks conceding strategic ground.
For environmentalists, this dynamic creates an additional layer of challenge. Overfishing becomes intertwined with sovereignty disputes and national security considerations. Calls for stricter regulation can be framed domestically as attempts to undermine China’s maritime rights.
Despite these tensions, some observers see a glimmer of optimism. Historically, wealthier societies tend to place greater value on environmental protection once basic economic needs are met. China’s growing middle class and rising public awareness of pollution have already driven significant improvements in air quality and renewable energy investment.
The fact that Beijing is curbing overfishing in its own waters suggests that sustainability concerns are genuine. The challenge lies in extending that logic to international waters, where strategic incentives remain powerful.
If China’s overcapacity is driven less by economic rapacity and more by geopolitical calculation, then a diplomatic recalibration — rather than purely market reforms — may be required to ease pressure on the oceans.
As global power shifts away from the West, the environmental movement faces a delicate balancing act. For decades, advocacy campaigns focused heavily on Western corporations and governments. Today, emerging powers play an equally significant role in shaping ecological outcomes.
Critics warn that failing to hold all major actors accountable risks undermining the credibility of global environmental governance. If countries with expanding economic and military influence are perceived as exempt from scrutiny, international agreements may lose traction.
At the same time, engagement rather than confrontation may yield better results. Cooperative fisheries management, transparent subsidy reporting, and multilateral enforcement mechanisms could align China’s domestic sustainability goals with global conservation needs.
The world’s oceans cover more than 70 percent of the Earth’s surface and sustain billions of people. They regulate climate, provide protein for vulnerable populations, and support intricate ecosystems that scientists are only beginning to understand.
When industrial fleets operate at the edge of ecological limits, the consequences ripple outward — from coral reef degradation to the collapse of migratory species.
China’s decision to maintain a vast distant-water fleet as a strategic asset has clear geopolitical logic. Maritime presence reinforces territorial claims and signals resolve. But the ecological cost is mounting, and fish stocks do not recognize sovereignty lines.
China now stands at a crossroads. Its leadership has articulated a vision of ecological civilization and global environmental responsibility. It has the administrative capacity and technological tools to reshape its fishing industry in more sustainable ways.
Yet as long as fishing vessels double as instruments of maritime influence, subsidy reform alone will not resolve the tension.
For the broader international community, the challenge is equally complex. Engaging China on conservation without inflaming strategic rivalry requires nuanced diplomacy and shared frameworks.
Ultimately, the fate of marine biodiversity may depend on whether sustainability can be disentangled from geopolitics — or whether the two will remain locked together in a contest that leaves the oceans depleted.
As debates over territorial waters and maritime rights continue, one reality is inescapable: fish stocks are finite. The longer great-power competition plays out through fishing fleets, the greater the risk that the natural world will pay the price.
For environmental advocates and policymakers alike, the message is clear. Conservation cannot be selective, and accountability cannot be geographically convenient. In an era of shifting power, the oceans demand a truly global commitment — one that recognizes both the strategic calculations of rising powers and the fragile ecosystems that sustain life on Earth.
